The Mind is a Fragile Thing
by mylovelymindpalace
Summary: Molly Hooper counted for so many reasons. This is one. Prompt fill for the prompt "recovery" from MorbidByDefault.


"The mind is a fragile thing." A voice said somewhere around him.  
He heard a murmur of acquiescence, felt a hand on his shoulder. He could see, but it was dim and murky, his vision was clouded as if he were swimming through dirty water.  
"My brother needs help Miss Hooper. His mind will tear itself apart. He wasn't made for this. He refused help…" He remembered now.  
It had been a dark night about a two weeks ago. Or was it a year ago? He couldn't remember. What use was time anyway? He had used the cocaine, his own solution, and was finally beginning to feel the drug coursing through his system. It was beautiful, freeing in a way that nothing else was. To a mind like his, stimulation was the pinnacle of existence. Mycroft had shown up. He could remember being yelled at, he could remember not caring. Mycroft didn't understand him, not truly. No one did. He had promised to quit, mostly to insure that Mycroft wouldn't tell Mummy. It bothered her so, her Sherly using something so pointless. He hadn't meant to keep his promise. They had been through this so many times before, Mycroft firm, Sherlock falsely repentant. He would hide away for a week or two, make Mycroft believe he was clean. And then he would return to the drug (not that he had ever really stopped). But this time Mycroft was insistent. He kept a constant watch on Sherlock, installed a camera in his flat that he knew was for the express purpose of catching him.  
He had actually done it, he had been clean for about a week. His willpower had been enough, sheer determination was all he had needed. But he was addicted. And he reverted.  
The catalyst was the headache. He had tried combating the effects of quitting with his mind. There was no way he was going to rehab as he had promised Mycroft, so he was forced to the option of quitting cold turkey. But the headache, the dull pounding, the stabbing in his brain that wouldn't stop, forced all mental activity to a screeching halt. He was barely able to function, not even capable of moving a limb. There was no way he could mentally overcome the other symptoms. It was living hell. There was vomiting, shaking, times were he was no longer even lucid. The pain of quitting racked his body and his biggest temptation was to end the pain with a bullet to the head. Mycroft had missed his revolver when he had swept the house. But that would require moving, and any movement would send a stab of pain through his head, a pain more unbearable than if he shot himself.  
He hadn't meant to OD. He had meant to take just enough to alleviate the torture. Then he would quit. His shaking hands had measured extra, even in his weakened state he knew it was too much. But he needed it. He craved it.  
He assumed Mycroft found him. It was the only explanation that made sense. He didn't really remember. He had refused help, told Mycroft to back off, to get out of his life. But he had refused. He had insisted that Sherlock get help. They had gone back and forth, Sherlock's resolve weakening day by day.  
"Fine." He had croaked the morning before when Mycroft had come to check on him. "Fine. But it has to be her."  
He had no idea how Mycroft had known who he had meant. He didn't really even know who he had meant. She had been a girl in a class on pathology that he had attended. She was inconsequential, he could read her life story at a glance. He had talked to her once, he barely remembered her name. She was attracted to him, or had been. He had used it to his advantage, bribed her with complements for something or other. She would help. He didn't know why, he didn't even know how he knew. But he did. She would help.  
Molly gasped at the sight of the two men walking towards her. Well, one man walked towards her, the other leaned heavily on his arm. It took her a moment to realize that this ghost was Sherlock Holmes. She had met him a few times, sat next to him in lectures. But this wasn't the man she knew. The veins in his hands stuck out, mounded up under the parchment-thin skin. His knuckles were wider than the rest of his fingers. It was a shame. She remembered watching his graceful, thin fingers tapping unconsciously on a pen. His eyes were glazed and distant. He was gaunt, his limbs dangling heavily at his sides. His cheekbones, which were what had initially attracted her to him, pressed outward against his skin, stretching the flesh tightly on his face.  
"Miss Hooper, I presume." The second man said. "I have rather an odd request for you."  
He paused slightly before continuing on.  
"My brother here has a problem, an addiction. He agreed to quit. You are the only person he trusts to help him."  
Molly was confused. He was basically a stranger, someone she had sat across from in class once or twice. He had complemented her blouse once, but she knew it was only for access to a toxicology report that she was using.  
"Me? Why me?" She stammered.  
"The mind is a fragile thing."  
She made an unintelligible noise of agreement.  
"My brother needs help Miss Hooper. His mind will tear itself apart. He wasn't made for this. He refused help. Please…just…help him."  
The shakes and the pleading were the worst. Molly had done research on how to aid someone recover from an addiction, but nothing could prepare her for the mental agony which she faced. There were bad days. She could put up with the screaming, the vomiting, the anger. But she couldn't take it when he was crying, his whole body wracked by tremors, pleading with her. He was like a little boy, lost and alone. His eyes were the most horrific part of it all. He was broken, she could tell. But there were also good days. There were days when he was somewhat normal, when she was able to coax some food between his lips. There were times they held full conversations. The little things became victories, when he slept through a whole night, when he ate. She had almost fainted when he told her that he had gained a pound. Most nights, even after the most turbulent days, he would rest his head in her lap as she watched telly. She stroked his curls gently and he would push his head against the touch of her fingers. She had no delusions that their's was a romantic relationship. But there was something there, something she hadn't felt before. On the bad nights (the "danger nights", she termed them) he would crawl wearily into her bed. He would snake his arms around her waist, the touch purely platonic. They both found it comforting though. She could hear him sniffling behind her, the tremors still wracking his poor body. They were difficult nights, and she often wanted to cry, but she valued those nights more than any other she could remember.  
He lived with her for almost a year, 11 months three weeks (not that she was counting). They had grown used to each other, he had become easier to live with. He recovered, slowly at first, then by leaps and bounds. She woke up one morning, an arm on her neck and a leg slung across hers. She chuckled, pulling his lanky limbs off of her. He had insisted they share the bed even though she had a perfectly good pull-out. She pulled a dressing gown around her sweatpants and tank top, walking dazedly to the kitchen. She wasn't exactly a morning person. Mycroft Holmes, a man whose presence she had come to dread, was seated at the kitchen table. His fingers were steepled under his chin in a position that she had seen Sherlock use many times. These thinking times had grown more common recently. It was a good sign.  
"Doctor Hooper." He said slowly. "How good to see you again."  
She inclined her head slightly, not stopping in her trek to the coffee pot that she had programmed the night before.  
"Our arrangement can come to an end."  
She turned, brows furrowed.  
"Excuse me?"  
Mycroft shrugged and waved his hands in the air in a meaningless gesture.  
"He's sufficiently recovered."  
Sherlock was gone within three days. He thanked her briefly, packed his few belongings and was gone.  
Molly was backed up against the door of the morgue. Sherlock was talking but the words he was saying were barely registering.  
"What do you need?" She asked slowly.  
"You."


End file.
